


I guess I could tell you some ghost stories, but they'd all be sad instead of spooky

by letteredheart



Category: Ghost Trick: Phantom Detective
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 17:55:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10702125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letteredheart/pseuds/letteredheart
Summary: Dead people don't have much of a social network, you guess.(At least he has a cat.)





	I guess I could tell you some ghost stories, but they'd all be sad instead of spooky

**Author's Note:**

> *shows up to the fandom seven years late with super short shitty fanfiction*  
> Welp, I have finished the game two days ago and guess who’s got a new obsession now. (I have never asked nor wanted to feel so many different things at the same time, Gdi Capcom.)
> 
> ((God, I don’t know if I even like this. I’m pretty sure my grasp of the characters is … not good yet, but hey, you gotta start somewhere, right? I always start with angsty stuff, so have this.))

You put down the newspaper and laugh. You laugh for the entirety of one or two minutes, maybe five, or seven, and really, what difference does it make, time means nothing. Time means nothing to a dead person.

“I…” You laugh again, once, a bitter sound void of every actual amusement. “I am innocent,” you say. “Completely innocent. They’ve proven it.” Half a year too late, you think, but don’t dare saying it out loud because saying it out loud would remind you of everything else that has happened since, all the stuff you try to forget or- 

No, you don’t want to forget. How could you ever want to forget her.

But you try not to think about it. (You never succeed.)

You get no answer, which is not at all surprising, because cats can’t talk.

“Cats can’t talk,” you say, more to yourself than anyone else, more to just hear someone say something, and look at him. He’s looking back. He always is. You have been talking to him ever since you got your body back, which is probably stupid, but you don’t care, because his is the only company you keep, the only company you want. Dead people don't have much of a social network, you guess. 

You look at the newspaper, read a few lines again, stare at the names mentioned. Rookie Detective Cabanela was the lucky guy, the one to get the _real_ culprit behind it, oh, how _good_ for him, it really speaks volumes about his _skill_ , _good for him_.

“Good for him,” you say, and your voice cracks somewhere in the middle of this ridiculously short sentence, and you grab the newspaper and toss it away. It lands somewhere in the middle of the tiny hotel room, and then it sits there and the pages make a tiny sound, a tiny, pathetic sound, almost as pathetic as the sound of your crying.

How ironic, how fucking ironic, that dead people can still cry. 

(Your body shouldn’t work like that anymore. Your body shouldn’t work like _anything at all_ anymore.)

The soft thud and the sudden additional weight on the mattress is what prompts you to open your eyes in the end, after you-don’t-know-how-long-because-time-doesn’t-matter-anymore. He’s sitting right in front of you, staring at you. He blinks his eyes twice, slowly. He does it often, and you don’t get what it means, so you just stare back, cheeks still tear-stained. 

“I can’t go on like this,” you whisper, still looking at him, talking to him. “I can’t, and I don’t want to.” 

Nothing makes sense. The whole world has stopped making sense, in more than one way, and you really are not strong enough for this. How could you expect yourself to be, if she obviously wasn’t either--

_Don’t think about it._

(You never succeed.)

“Sissel, what am I supposed to do?” Sometimes, his name tastes like ashes in your mouth.

He keeps silent. Eyes still fixed on you. He keeps silent. And what else is he supposed to do, anyway, because cats can’t talk, after all. Every now and then, you expect him to answer, and then you feel incredibly stupid for it. “You don’t even understand any of what I’m saying.” You laugh a little, shakily. “You don’t understand what’s going on. You don’t understand a single thing. … Must … be nic-”

He steps closer, slowly, as if waiting for your permission, and then he’s in your lap, curling up there, and his fur is soft under your fingertips, as soft as her hair was, and you’re crying again, but it doesn’t feel as lonely now, and he’s purring, a good sound, a soothing sound, and--

_Nothing makes sense._

With Sissel lying in your lap like that, with him blinking up at you again, with him purring, with him being so close, just as lonely and forgotten, this sentence doesn’t _quite_ feel like the truth.

**Author's Note:**

> … Someone give this trash man a three hour long hug, please.


End file.
